


Weak Men

by writingandchocolatemilk



Series: RusEng Oneshots [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:12:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingandchocolatemilk/pseuds/writingandchocolatemilk
Summary: "People who need gloves have weak souls."England nodded, rubbed his hands together. Then, he processed what he just heard. "Excuse me?"Russia smiled. "People," he said, louder, "who need gloves have weak souls."





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Anonymous said :** Maybe some RusEng?  <3 Get better soon! 
> 
> **WWII time-era.**

It was fucking freezing. As soon as England stepped off the plane—not even. He had been freezing since he stepped  _on_  the plane. The plane brought freezing cold air from Russia to London, and England had stewed in that air.

"Supplies," England muttered, gesturing over his shoulder at the trucks. "Just what we deemed necessary for—"

"People who need gloves have weak souls."

England nodded, rubbed his hands together. Then, he processed what he just heard. "Excuse me?"

Russia smiled. "People," he said, louder, "who need gloves have weak souls."

They were standing on a landing strip. Well, England supposed it was a landing strip—his plane had certainly landed there—but it was more like an empty, dirt field. The wind cut through England like a knife through warm butter.

Except England was a fucking freezing stick of butter.

England scowled. "Seriously? It's bloody freezing. Don't tell me—"

"It's okay," Russia said, holding two thumbs up. "I know you are a weak little man. However, that is why you're allied with me."

England scoffed. "Alright—I'm hoping this whole meeting isn't going to be passive aggressive."

"And I am hope you brought me some alcohol in those crates." Russia pointed. "Those ones."

England rubbed his hands together again. "Shall we get this meeting on with? I'd like to spend the least amount of time here as humanly possible. Where is the building?"

Russia smiled. "Building?"

England nodded. "Right, yes, headquarters or however you call it."

Russia slowly nodded along with England. "We don't have a headquarters."

England gaped. "Excuse me?"

"I said," Russia started, louder, "we don't—"

"Yes! I bloody well heard what you said! Where are we going to meet, then?" England looked around, teeth chattering. "There's absolutely nothing around here. Where are you going to distribute the supplies?"

Russia shrugged. "Around. And we are meeting!" Russia threw his hands in the air. "We are having a meeting right now!"

"I will get back on that plane, Russia."

"It's the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to you, England."

England crossed his arms, hands in his armpits. He glared around the empty field, at his men sharing fags, at the distance between his men and the Soviets, also smoking.

Finally, England dragged his eyes back to Russia. "Do you have  _anywhere_  out of the wind? I'd accept a hole in the ground at this point."

Russia pointed. "There's a tent."

"Fantastic."

Russia trotted across the field. A few feet away from the plane, England sank into the snow up to his calf. Russia, however, walked on ahead, obvious to England falling farther and farther behind.

"Fucking—" England was panting, more than a few yards away from Russia. "Could you slow down?"

"No!"

By the time England had made it to the tent, Russia was already settled, feet on the table, hands crossed over his stomach.

"Thanking you for joining me."

"Bugger off," England wheezed. His feet were soaking wet, his legs aching. "Oh, it's a whole degree warmer in this blasted tent." He collapsed into the free chair. As his weight settled, he could feel water leak out of his socks.

Russia looked around, absently playing with his fingers. "Cozy, yes?"

"Freezing, and now my feet are wet." England rubbed his hands together. "So—"

"I want Poland."

England blinked. "I'm sor—I mean, you want Poland? What do you mean by that? You can't just  _have_  Poland. That's what started this whole war!"

Russia shook a finger. "No, that is why  _you_  started this war. I just want more land."

"I'm sorry, Russia, but I can't just  _give_  you Poland." England rolled his eyes. "Is that why you dragged me all the way out here? To ask for that ridiculous demand?"

"I like your eyebrows, also."

"What?"

"I also called you out here because I like your eyebrows. Manly eyebrows, unlike your weak soul. But also, yes, I want Poland."

England massaged the bridge of his nose. "You realize Poland may have something to say about that, right?"

"Ah, yes, his government is in London, yes?"

"Don't remind me."

Russia smiled. He took his feet of the table, leaned forward, tilted his head down. "I am not asking for much. I have good mens, good people, who want to fight those who attacked us. I offer all of my peoples."

England opened his mouth, but Russia was already waving his hand.

"Sorry, I was not being polite. I did not offer you a drink." He stood and walked around the tent, digging through the various bags on the ground until he found two cups and a bottle of something unlabeled.

"Russia, this is official—"

"It is Russian custom! Here." Russia poured England a drink, filled to the very top of the glass. "Drink. I have heard too much of official lately."

 

* * *

 

"God, you should  _hear_  Poland." England shook his head. "He's half-ready to parachute himself in there! Fight them himself! He's quiet and then he screams and throws things and glares at me. It's awful. He's terrifying."

Russia hummed. "And you?"

England took another sip and winced, clicking his tongue from the taste. "What about me?"

"How are you doing? Poland is a feral cat. And you?"

England reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink. At least it was cold without ice cubes. And it warmed him up. He could feel his fingers and the heat in his cheeks.

" _Me_  me?"

"What?"

England shook his head. "Nothing. People are scared. But determined." He took a sip. Swirled the alcohol in the glass. "You can give us that. Determined."

Russia nodded. "I am good."

England looked up and blinked. "Oh, oh fuck, sorry. How are you?"

Russia shrugged. "I've been to war. My people are used to war. And the cold. Life continues in the USSR."

England breathed out, shook his head. "Is all you want land?"

Russia shrugged. "It would be nice. Resources. Ports that don't freeze over."

"And Germany doesn't bother you?"

"Does now. That's all that matters now, yes? At least for you." Russia drank from the bottle. "Unless you are referring to the fascism."

"I am."

Russia shrugged. "My people and I know what is good. If anyone in Germany has a problem with fascism, they can come to the union." He raised the bottle and said something in Russian. "More welcomes to them."

England shook his head. "He's powerful. I'll give him that."

Russia shrugged. "You are not?"

"I'm an island." England drank. "We have a nice navy."

"Which is easy when you have an island, yes?"

England laughed. "Exactly. You mind terribly if I smoke?"

Russia wave a hand dismissively. England lit and breathed smoke.

"God, feels like we just had a war, doesn't it?" England sighed. "I used to love war."

Russia shook his head. "No, you used to like conquest. I am someone who had to fight for everything they have, and I do not like war. It is necessary. I need it for my people." Russia looked at him through half-lidded eyes. "I used to fight against people like you."

England shrugged. "And now you need Poland."

Russia smiled. "He's going to be a mess after this all."

"He has sovereignty, Russia."

"And he will under the Soviet Union, as well. Union, England. We're a family."

England laughed. "Sure."

Russia sighed. "I'm offering my services in this war, England. I do not ask for much."

"You're asking for another nation to add to your collection."

"I am asking for another nation's land." Russia tilted his head back and forth. "For all I care, you can keep Poland in London. My resources will be scarce after the war."

England finished his drink. "I thought we were not talking about official business."

"You are defecting."

"You mean 'deflecting.'"

"I mean I'm drunk." Russia chuckled.

England looked at his drink. Then back up at Russia. "Hey, fuck you about the whole gloves issue."

"Fuck you and your weak soul."


End file.
